Page 108 of Cursed Shadows 5

That is how I spend the start of the First Wind, with the still-warm air starting to pick up from the Breeze, watching the congested crowd shove by.

It’s when the blaring horns are passing me by, and I cringe against the assault on my eardrums, that I spot a glimmer of gold, not Dare-gold,Eamon-gold. Honey and cinnamon and embers.

There he is—across the parade, two lanes down from where I last spotted him. I only find him because he flaps his hand in the air, and the glint of his golden blade and wrist brace are glaring at me.

Eamon stands on the uneasiness of stacked crates, and they wobble beneath him. His hand is flat on the stone wall as he lifts his chin—and waves right at me.

I blink on him once then scramble for the nearest window-ledge. I arch my neck to better make him out.

Eamon waves again, then starts a slow-moving theatre of gesture. First, he brings his pinched fingers to his kiss, then gestures to the lane behind him. Blocking that lane is a stall selling all sorts of musical instruments, little metal triangles and sticks of rubber, and flutes and mandolins.

Eamon finishes the gestured instructions and flattens his hand against the air. He gives me a pointed look.

I nod.

He’s going down the lane to buy grimroot or valerian stalk, and I’m to wait here for him to return.

Got it.

Satisfied, he jumps off the stack of crates—and lands next to Daxeel.

My eyes narrow on him.

Daxeel’s cheek is turned to me, chin tucked down, that withering cloud of defeat and misery still haunting him. He follows Eamon into the lane, both slipping by the edge of the stall, then sucked into the thick shadows.

In a heartbeat, maybe two, I can’t see them.

The dark swallows them.

Still, I stand on the ledge and watch the blackness beyond the stall.

My teeth sink into the exposed juicy plum surface, and it bleeds down my hand. Trickles travel further down to my elbow, and I have the distant desire to wash, to soak my sticky flesh in soapy water.

But that will come later.

After more of the festival, after the smoke that Eamon will get for us, and after honeywine and dances and songs in the heart of the town.

I might have no sleep at all, since we are opening tomorrow—and we are so very unprepared.

Still, the tavern doors will part, the sign will rotate fromCLOSEDtoOPEN, and I will take the orders of our patrons, while Eamon sticks to the bar, and Forranach moves around the kitchen with the new wheeled chair that Eamon purchased for him.

It’s not the hardest work, since we are only selling basic, starchy foods that we can keep up with. Sliced potatoes, cuts of meat, fresh bread and cakes from the bakery down the street.

The thought of it, all that food, is watering my mouth. I swallow back the hunger and bite into my plum again. It doesn’t hit the same as it did before thoughts of a hearty meal.

I huff and watch the dark mouth of the lane. I watch for only a heartbeat before a frown starts to dig into my face.

Shadows move. There, reaching up the walls of the lane ahead, shadows move, warp, flitter. I watch the distortion of light for a moment, then I realise. No, it isn’t the shadows that move, but rather two fae who come out of them.

From the rooftops of the two shops, one on each, two fae slip down the walls, landing on either side of the table smeared with musical instruments.

My eyes narrow on them, the strangers.

Grip tightening on the stick, fingers slick with plum juice, I am stiff as those two fae, sheathed in inky black gear, not leathers, not like the dark warriors, but black linen that is padded to them, moulded like a second skin.

It is a curious sight.

I assume they are dokkalves… until they both turn for the lane, and I see that their ears aren’t as sharp as a dark one’s would be; their complexions not as striking, not marble and stone; their bodies not as bulky and tall; their nails not black and pointed like talons…

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